Son of Avonar (67 page)

“And, of course, as the good Maceron believes, none of your kind will remain in the Four Realms,” I said. “But you've no need to stay, have you? The Lords of Zhev'Na feed on our sorrows all the way from their wasteland—”

“Do not speak of those you cannot comprehend,” snapped Giano. “If you mundanes rip each other's flesh, that is your own doing, not ours.”

Just outside the doors into the passageway, Giano and his companions discarded their priest's robes. All three were attired in long, belted shirts of purple or gray, tight black hose, and supple black boots that reached above their knees. Each wore a single gold earring and carried a quite serious-looking sword. One of Giano's henchmen was a burly man with reddish hair, thick forearms, and a gray cast to his skin. To my astonishment the other was a woman, tall, angular, and severe, arms like a plowman and iron-gray hair twisted into a knot atop her head. Her eyes held no more human feeling than did those of her companions.

“And now, madam . . .” said Giano, motioning me to precede him.

The blue-gray frostlight of the Gate flooded the passage. As I walked into the chamber, flanked by the two Zhid, my breath was visible in the frigid air. It took me a heart-searing moment to find the one that waited. He sat by the fiery wall, his arms wrapped about his knees, his head bowed as if he were asleep. I tried to shout a warning, but my tongue would not obey, no matter how I tried. Even so, the Prince's head came up quickly, his face awash with unhappy surprise.

It's all right,
I thought.
I chose to be here. To stay with you.
Gods, how I wished he could hear me. Indeed, no answering words sounded in my mind, but on his face blossomed a smile of such brilliance, one might think all the beauty and joy of the universe had been gathered into his soul. Karon's smile. I was right. Oh, holy gods, how was it possible?

A quick movement to my left was Giano, his gaze snapping from the Prince to me and back again. The Zhid's eyes narrowed briefly, picking at my soul before he moved on to his business. “We stand at this artifice of enslavement called D'Arnath's Bridge,” he said, focusing sober attention on the man seated in front of him. “Who speaks for the dead despot?”

And so the challenge was opened.

“I speak for D'Arnath, the father of my fathers,” answered the Prince, remaining seated, though shifting his full attention to the Zhid. “Who intrudes on this holy place?”

“Those who deny D'Arnath and his whelps any place in the worlds that have repudiated them. We refute your claim to these objects you so pompously declare to be holy. This bridge and its devices unlawfully bind the power of your own people. And the residents of this sad world”—he swept his hand wide—“have long declared they want no part of Dar'Nethi magics.”

“I'll take on any challenge. I'll not lie down and die for you, Zhid.”

Giano smiled. “I never intended you should.”

The Prince sat relaxed. Waiting. “Who has appointed you champion for this world, Giano?”

“Much as I desire to be the sole bearer of this challenge, D'Natheil, and to lick the last drops of D'Arnath's blood from my sword, this battle is properly fought by all concerned.” He snapped his fingers, and the Zhid woman left the room. “It is time for your family's unique brand of slavery to end. Unlike your self-important ancestors, we do not assume the right to speak for these mundanes or declare what's best for their future. We've only shown them how D'Arnath and J'Ettanne have contrived to keep their world in bondage to Avonar, that dying crone who sucks the lifeblood of a child to extend her life one moment longer. No. This world has provided its own proper opponent, one who carries the honor of these lands and their sovereign on his sword.”

I caught my breath. The connection I hadn't seen. Giano did not need to name his champion, the lord who had arrived in the middle of the night, the same lord who had been sent to answer the challenge of a “rebel chieftain” in the west. The burly Zhid had pulled me to the fog-shrouded periphery of the chamber, so Tomas did not see me as he strode through the doorway behind the Zhid woman. How magnificent he looked, dressed in red silk, fine leather, and the ruby-studded tabard that was only worn by the king's defender, carrying the ancient sword of the Champion of Leire. Perfectly balanced, exactingly forged and tempered, there was no finer blade in the Four Realms. Now, where was his companion, Maceron's master, the sardonic snake who slithered out from under every vile stone in the Four Realms? For the moment, at least, Tomas stood alone.

My brother seemed scarcely to note his strange surroundings, but saved his attention for the Prince. He snorted when D'Natheil rose to face him. “This is my opponent, my liege's challenger?”

Though the two were equal in stature, the Prince looked shabby in comparison: barefoot, his face bruised, wrists and ankles raw and ringed with dried blood, Rowan's tired black cloak held about him with the sword belt. D'Natheil looked puzzled as he examined Tomas, and only after a long scrutiny of my brother's face and red-brown hair did understanding dawn. “Is this some jest, Zhid? I've no dispute with this man.”

Tomas interrupted the smirking Giano before the Zhid could answer. “I am no one's jest. I stand champion for Evard, King of Leire and Valleor, Protector of Kerotea and Iskeran. No one challenges the sovereignty of my liege without answer from me.”

“I make no challenge to your king,” said the Prince. “My argument is with this Giano and his masters who have laid waste to my own land, who have devastated my people beyond your understanding, who have murdered my father and my brothers, and whose intent is to slay me before I can remedy the wickedness they've done.”

“I care nothing for your personal disputes,” spat Tomas. “But sorcerers of your race have lived in Leire uninvited, defying our laws and customs. You proclaim yourself sovereign of a neighboring realm, yet you do not treat with our king as would a legitimate brother. Instead you sneak about the Four Realms, committing murder and spying out our defenses. And this strange portal—do you not claim it as your rightful property, and is it not possible for your warriors to invade our lands through some secret avenue that lurks behind it?”

Someone had tutored him very well.

“You don't understand what you've been brought into,” said D'Natheil. “I'll not fight you. I honor your house, and I acknowledge your king.”

Tomas drew his longsword—the light, flexible, perfectly edged blade of the Champion of Leire, rubies glittering in its hilt. “I understand enough. Fail to fight, and you'll die at my hand. By our law, you should rightly burn. But because you've come from another land, I offer you a warrior's death.” He stepped closer to the Prince. D'Natheil stood motionless, hands loose and relaxed at his sides, sword sheathed. I tried again to call out, to stop the wickedness that was about to happen. But Giano smiled at my struggle. His binding on my tongue was as firm as the Zhid warrior's hold on my arm. I could not make a sound, and my brother could not see me.

With the wickedly tapered tip of his sword, Tomas ripped a long slit in D'Natheil's collar.

The Prince did not move. “I have no dispute with you, sir.”

Another tweak at his breast left a ragged tear in the black cloak. Tomas was proud and preferred a fight, but he took his duty to Evard very seriously. If he was convinced of the danger D'Natheil posed, he would take off the Prince's head without compunction. A third move left a bloody scratch on D'Natheil's cheek, and with a movement so swift as to be unseen, Rowan's sword, heavy and old-fashioned, scratched and nicked in a hundred places, appeared in the Prince's hand. Giano licked his lips. Was he still expecting the Prince to run?

With no further hesitation, Tomas attacked. I had not seen my brother fight since he'd come into his prime. He was a master of fluid power, the flash and speed of his youth replaced by intelligence and perception. It was as if he knew to an exactitude where D'Natheil's blade would be at any moment, and he scarcely had to shift his position to counter any move the Prince made. His king did not deserve such perfection.

D'Natheil began slowly, as if he were reluctant, or the weapon were too heavy, or he couldn't remember the moves. But as Tomas lunged and struck, the ringing swords sending blue-white sparks flying through the icy fog, the Prince shed his hesitation. Thrust, parry, counter, attack . . . spinning, circling . . . faster, smoother, more powerful by the moment, a new level of skill demonstrated with every closure.

Tomas's jaw was sculpted in iron, his lips a thin line. As far as I knew he had not lost a match since he was seventeen. A barrage of slashing blows from the Prince had Tomas almost in my lap, but my brother ducked and spun and twisted away, and then his weapon was slicing downward toward D'Natheil's shoulder. But the Prince spun, too, and his blade halted Tomas's stroke with a bone-shattering block.

After a while I wondered if D'Natheil even knew whom he fought or why. His face had settled into an expressionless mask. Every step, every stroke, every attack, slash, spin, and parry seemed to take him farther away from himself, as if there were no real dispute with rights or wrongs or consequences, no war, no meaning outside his actions, only the unthinking, unending, glorious abstraction of combat. He was lost in passionless exaltation, his grace making Tomas look heavy-footed, his speed and strength making Tomas look old. Whatever the truth of his soul, the body that battled my brother that day was D'Natheil, the Heir of D'Arnath.

A ringing blow and the Champion's sword clattered across the colorless paving stones. Tomas was on one knee, flushed, panting, and bleeding from a deep gash in his thigh.

D'Natheil held Rowan's blade high over his shoulder, its edge on a line for Tomas's neck. The Prince's face was cold and deadly, and I felt that the very universe must be weeping silent tears.

No. No. No.
I ached to cry out, to alter D'Natheil's expression of uncaring inevitability. Tomas was my brother. Flesh of my flesh. I could not forget his eyes reflected in the glass back in his palace chambers—bewildered, guilt-wracked—craving forgiveness that he could not ask, knowing that I could not give.

Moments passed. The Prince did not strike. Slowly, he lowered his weapon and said, huskily, “Go. This is not your fight.”

“Do not dismiss me!” Tomas's face was scarlet. “Finish me with honor or give me back my sword.”

The Prince shook his head. “I'll not fight you. Those who chose you chose well, but I will not slay the Duke of Comigor, son of the Lord Gervaise.” He stuck his sword tip under Tomas's blade and with a twist of his wrist flipped the gleaming weapon into the air, so that it came down hilt-first into its owner's hand.

Tomas's anger was supplanted by surprise and curiosity. “How do you know me?” D'Natheil glanced over my brother's shoulder and tipped his head. Tomas's eyes followed his. “Seri!”

The world paused in its turning.

“Yes, your traitorous sister is here, Lord Tomas,” said Giano, breaking his long silence and drawing Tomas's gaze away from me. “She has betrayed you once again, Your Grace, betrayed your king, violated the sacred honor of your house by consorting with this sorcerer prince. She exemplifies the corruption he brings, mocking you, and prostituting your son's heritage. I'm prepared to turn her over to you as soon as you discharge your duty to your king.”

Tomas stood up slowly and waved his sword point from Giano to me. “Let her go.”

“The sorcerer disdains you,” said Giano. “Can you not see the scorn in which he holds your king, your people? He thinks to make you impotent by flaunting his rape of your sister's mind, this ultimate violation begun by that other of his kind. You remember . . . the one you so prudently removed from this world, the one who sought to pollute your very bloodlines with his foul seed.”

“You were right, Seri,” said my brother, staring at Giano. “Until this moment, I'd forgotten your warning about the one with the empty eyes.” He sheathed his sword and folded his arms across his breast. “I'll fight no more until I understand what's happening here.” Without taking his eyes from the Zhid, he said, “This is his friend. Darzid's friend.”

But in the moment he uttered Darzid's name, Tomas was lost. A leaden shutter dropped across his face, and like a wooden doll jerked onto the stage by its puppetmaster, he snarled and whirled to face D'Natheil. And before I could connect his altered behavior with Giano's upraised fist, my brother drew his sword, roared a curse, and attacked. The startled Prince could do nothing but counter, and Tomas, in his madness, could not adjust to his opponent's lightning response. D'Natheil's sword was driven deep by the force of Tomas's charge.

Tomas sagged, and when the Prince withdrew his blade, my brother slumped to the floor. Then the Zhid warrior released me and, together with the Zhid woman, drew his weapon and fell upon the Prince before D'Natheil could even see what he'd done.

I ran to Tomas and dragged him away from the combat. Blood poured from the gaping wound in his side. With his knife, I hacked a strip from my skirt and bound the folded rag in place around him with my cloth belt.
Not fair. Not fair.
Did the saving of the world require this blood, too? I clutched my brother in my arms and wished that I could pray.

A sword skittered across the paving, coming to rest beside the curtain of fire. The burly Zhid was down, leaving a smeared trail of blood as he crawled toward his dropped weapon. The woman was fading fast under D'Natheil's relentless assault. I assumed Giano would be the next to attack, but the smiling Zhid commander leaned his shoulder against the wall and watched.